My friend and I walk in the morning in the wetlands. It is a world of water and the life that is drawn to the wetland. The beavers have returned and flooded our trails and changed the landscape, but we are undeterred and skirt the edges of new water and create our own new trails. The geese honk overhead, ducks and coots float serenely, occasionally diving and fluttering along the edges, and when we are lucky an egret or heron, still as a statue is spotted, reflected in the water. In summer the water recedes, leaving muck one dares not get too near to for fear of being swallowed up at worst or losing a shoe at the least. Little birds walk about the muddy surface and puddles, pecking at swarms of tiny insects. Fall comes and the rain and mist gather in and the big birds congregate on the lake in large, noisy crowds, arguing, we imagine, whether to keep heading south or take their chances on a winter spent in the Oregon wetland. We walk despite the rain. It is western Oregon, after all, and we are one with the rain and are rewarded with this wet, wild beauty that is the wetlands.